Penalty Game
by TheSmileyFaceGuy
Summary: "Reichenbach has fallen. Moriarty has won. But I will remain. For John." Sherlock is cornered with no way out, and Moriarty forces him into the extreme. Three years pass and Sherlock finds himself on his most dangerous race yet, one that threatens the one person that saw through the machine to the man, that no one knew was there. R&R. (Johnlock)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: Hey! TheSmileyFaceGuy here. Just wanted to say, before you read this, you should know that I wrote this for a friend for Chirstmas. I usually don't write this kinda stuff. Snailhair101, you're welcome. :)

**Disclaimer**: DO NOT OWN! I repeat, NOT MINE. That is all. :)

:) :) :)

_Three years Ago_

I glanced down on the fallen body of my nemesis, Jim Moriarty, who even in death, grinned up at my dilemma in triumph, as blood pooled around his head and neck. I had beaten him; had discovered a way out of his trap. But that door had been ruthlessly and permanently shut. There was only one option now. I could only hope that Molly Hooper knew what she was doing. I glanced down the building to the street below. Survivable, but distinctly unpleasant. There was nothing for it, now. Time for plan 'B.'

I pulled out my mobile and rang John. He, of all people, deserved this. A final goodbye for staying by me for so long. As the phone rang, I hoped, more and more, that he wouldn't answer. I didn't want to say goodbye, not yet.

"Hello?" It was John. Of course it was. He always answered.

"John?" I whispered, fighting the sudden rampage of emotion. I need to do this, now, for John.

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" he asked, a note of concern hidden in his voice.

He was good, even I would have missed it, if I didn't know him so well. I could see him, walking down the street to the hospital. Too close.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," I ordered, "now."

"No," he argued, "I'm coming in."

No! Can't he see? He'll be killed! I can't let that happen. Not to Jawn.

"Just do as I ask," I blurted, "Please!"

I was loosing control of myself; my emotions. Thankfully, John turned and began walking back the way he came. Relief flooded me and I resisted the urge to laugh. Not now. I still have a part to play.

"Stop there," I said, my voice even again.

"Sherlock?" he said, worry clear in his voice. My uncontrolled panic must be ringing alarm bells in his lovably dense skull.

"Okay, Look up. I'm on the roof top," I said matter-of-fact. I mean, I was there.

"Oh God."

Two words. Perhaps he isn't as dense as I thought. I smiled sadly at that. With those two words he showed he understood what I was about to do.

"I...I can't come down, so we'll have to do it like this." I whispered sadly.

"Wh – what is going on here?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"An apology." My own voice was empty. "It's all true."

"What?" he asked, confusion coloring his voice.

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty," I said plainly.

"Why are you saying this?" he demanded, not buying my 'confession' for a minute.

"I'm a fake," I insist quietly.

"Sherlock," he growled. Oh Jawn. Always faithful. I really liked that about him. It's why I've got to do this. I suppressed a wistful smile.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly...In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." I said firmly.

My hands were shaking. It had to be soon. Moriarty's men were watching.

"Okay, Shut up, Sherlock, shut up! The first time we met – _the first time we met_ – you knew all about my sister, right?" he almost shouted at me. Was I stalling at this point?

"Nobody could be that clever," I intoned. I needed to hurry now; who knows how long the shooters would wait for me to jump.

"You could," John replied quietly.

There was a tiny hint of longing in his voice. Was he trying to stall me? No, I couldn't let him distract me. I could see that I'd have to do the one thing I didn't want to do. Jawn deserved so much more.

"I researched you before we met," I lied bitterly, "I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick, John. It's just a magic trick." I finished bluntly.

I was cold. Though, not from the abysmal weather. I knew the moment was nearly here. I'd have to say it. I'd have to, because Jawn never would.

"No. Alright, stop it now," he snapped, starting to stride toward the hospital entrance again.

Blind panic shot through me. Didn't he understand? Couldn't he see what was happening? I had to protect him. I love him.

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are!" I practically shouted.

I love him. I love John Watson. That revelation was almost as shocking as it was obvious. And now I knew; The man I love is marked for death.

"Alright," John said quickly, stopping dead in his tracks.

I still needed one thing from him. One last thing...

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," I asked. _I love you_, "Please, will you do this for me?" I begged.

_I love you, Jawn. Please forgive me. I love you._

"Do what?" he asked quietly.

"This phone call, it's...er, it's my note," I said quietly. _I'm so sorry, Jawn, I have to protect you. I love you._ "It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?" I whispered. The moment had arrived.

"Leave a note when?" asked John, fear and horror in his voice.

_I love you, Jawn. Please forgive me. They're going to kill you. I'm so sorry. I don't want to leave, not now_...Finally, I forced it out; the last two words. My last line in Moriarty's script, even as my heart broke.

"Goodbye, Jawn," I whispered.

I let my arms drop to my sides. Faintly from the mobile, I heard 'No, don't,' but it matter. The time is now. I'm out of time to stall.

Goodbye Jawn.

I'm so, so sorry.

I never wanted to leave you.

He was going to kill you.

I love you so much.

Please forgive me.

With a deep sigh, I close my eyes and step off the roof top.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: The following is a non profit, fan based work of fiction. Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Please support the official release! Further more, I'd like to thank Snailhair101 for her help in editing this story. You're the best!

Peace, love and smiley faces! - TheSmileyFaceGuy

* * *

_Current Day_

I sighed heavily as I began yet another boring day at my flat. I'd been at number three, Privet Drive, for two and a half years now. Three years before, I faked my death by jumping from the top of Saint Bart's Hospital to save the lives of the people I've come to not hate and Jawn. My Jawn. The only person to see past the cold mask that, not I even knew, I wore.

I had spent six months with Molly, the woman who assisted me in faking my death. But I knew I couldn't stay in London. Not while the British public was still so keen on news about the 'Reichenbach Hero.' So, I moved to Surrey to start over; to try to lead a _normal_ life, as _normal_ people tend to do when such climactic events occur in their lives.

But I was board. So much so, that couldn't even think straight half of the time. To make matters worse, I was forbidden to shoot any of the walls or furniture in the flat. How else was I supposed to occupy my time? Such was my lot, it would seem.

Sipping my morning cuppa, I glanced out of my living room window, searching for anything interesting. Across the way at number four, a young man, perhaps ten years of age, was working at the hideous rose bushes.

The child was thin, much too thin for his age. The clothes he wore were far too large for him; Obvious signs of neglect and malnutrition. The boy also favored his right leg in a slight limp, strengthening the case for abuse. Furthermore, the boy (I failed to recall his name,) spent a large portion of time outside, engaging in some manor of labor. His posture suggested assaults or extreme fear; likely both. The mammoth man and lead of the household, Vernon, was constantly dressed to impress while shouting abuse to the skinny lad. Conclusion: The messy haired child is a victim of abuse, both physical and verbal. I sighed and continued getting ready for work.

I drove down the street, heading south. Nothing struck my interest, except perhaps an old, blue public call box. I noted that it should have been updated ages ago, what with all the technological advances. I had to remind myself that this was Surrey and not London, as I went on. I pulled into the car park at Argos. I hated this place, and the idea of 'work' in general. But I had to acquire funds somehow. And my old job of being amazingly clever just wasn't going to cut it. I've already ruined my life. Jawn's, too.

I resumed my spot at the cashier post in the shop. As I debated on _actually_ jumping off a rooftop, a man came into the line. Fluff hair. Suspenders. Goofy grin. Funny bow tie. Indoor clothes with outdoor odor. Cut above the right cheek. Torn jacket. Conclusion: Adventurer, and a reckless one at that.

"Nice bow tie," I said dryly, "that'll be fifty quid."

"Thank you, shop attendant. Bow ties are cool," he said an easy grin.

He handed me a hundred pound note and dashed off with his bags, calling for a woman named Clara. I stared down at the money, devastated in the world's math skills today. I tossed the paper in the drawer, craving a cigarette. There were times when I wished I skill smoked. It would certainly relieve the utter tedium of being a cashier in this convenient store. As I thought this, another customer arrived.

Let's see. Male. Blonde hair. Sourly disposition. Crossed arms. Heavy glare. A faint hint of dried steam and grease. Large stain on his perfect white shirt. Conclusion: Cook. No, professional chief.

And certified asshole.

"Hello! Hurry the fuck up! I have work to do," he growled at me.

"Forty-five quid. And try not to burn yourself with the oven next time, mate," I sneered.

He practically threw the money toward me before grabbing his items and storming out. The rest of my shift passed on at a monotonous crawl. After mentally rearranging the entire store in my head for the thirty-second time that week, five o'clock finally arrived. I clocked out as fast as possible.

I stepped out into the cool spring evening and started out across the Argos car park. A black van suddenly raced around the curb, screeching to a stop in front of me. The door opened and I was pulled inside before I was truly aware of it happening. My arms were pinned back.

"Oh dear, we are in trouble," a cold voice whispered, just as my world went black.

When I came to, I was tied in a chair. The rope was thick, industrial strength. The chair was bolted to the floor. I wasn't going anywhere any time soon. I glanced around, trying to quickly deduce my whereabouts. I appeared to be on the main floor of a warehouse, similar to the one during the Great Game case.

"Ah, look who's finally awake. The boss will be happy," a man's voice came from beside me.

He sounded young. Mid-twenties at the oldest. A Londoner, for sure. Hired help. His tone was indifferent, without passion. He might have kidnapped me, but he wasn't my captor.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I demanded, hoping to at least understand why I'd been taken.

"Not me, mate. I'm just here for the money. 'tween you and me, the boss seems a but touched in the head," the man said, almost jovially.

"Who is your boss? What is his name?" I asked.

"I dunno," he answered. I heard rapid beeping, the sound of a text message being sent on a mobile. "But he's 'round the twist. Barkin' mad, he is. He's also on his way. Don't fancy being you when he gets here," he said, almost friendly.

"Why's that?" I asked.

I didn't want to be me either at the moment. I could at least find out why it was bad to be me _now_ in particular. He chuckled.

"For weeks now, it's been 'Sherlock' this or 'Sherlock' that or 'damn that Sherlock,'" he said, laughing again, "It doesn't look good for you, friend."

"It doesn't seem like you have it out for me," I stated blandly.

"Oh, I don't. It's nothing personal, I just need the money the boss is paying me. My daughter, 'mione, just got accepted to a boarding school. Best in the world, or so I've heard. Even though I'm a dentist, I'd never be able to afford it. And then the boss shows up one day and says if I help him, he'll pay it. What else can a father do?" he asked, a slight defense in his voice.

"DAN! DAN GRANGER! Where are you?!" shouted a new voice.

One which, to my absolute horror, I recognized. Jim.

"Over here, boss. He's awake," said the man, presumably named Dan.

"Good. Now, scram!" he shouted again.

"What about -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, check's in the mail. Out, Granger!"

I heard him leave, his footsteps fading away.

"Oh, Sherlock, what are you doing here?" asked Moriarty calmly, walking in front of me.

"I'm not sure. I was about to ask you the same -"

"WRONG!" Moriarty shouted, back handing me, "Wrong answer, Sherlock! I want to know how you did it! How did you survive?" he said calmly, a twitch in his eye.

"Does it matter?" I griped, "Obviously a little thing like death won't stop either of us. How did _you_ survive Saint Bart's? If I remember correctly, you had a bullet for lunch that day."

He punched me in the gut, driving the wind from my lungs.

"Stupid Sherlock! Stupid, dumb, _ordinary_ SHERLOCK HOLMES! It was a fake gun and a blood pack, stupid! But you're right. It doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is that you're alive. You are supposed to be DEAD! But you're not. You cheated, Sherlock. In our last game," he paused to punch me, his ring digging into my cheek as his fist collided with my face, "YOU CHEATED! That has to be punished, Sherlock. So, here's what we're going to do."

He knelt down, to be eye level with me. I stared into the wide brown orbs, seeing nothing but crazed anger dwelling there.

"We're going to play another game. A penalty game. I'm going to make you pay, Sherlock, for cheating me. You owe me," he whispered.

He grinned at that; an insane grin that promised blood and death.

"You owe me, Sherlock Holmes. Do you remember, three years ago? When I owed you? I owed you a fall, Sherlock, and I gave it to you. But you cheated. You lived. Now, you owe me. And I intend to collect," he said, nodding, "yes, I will."

"What are you going to do?" I demanded, glaring at him.

"Oh, Sherlock, do you honestly believe that's gonna work? This is a penalty game. I'm not going to help you as much as I did last time and remember, this is all your fault," he said, caressing my face gently, almost like a lover. I shivered at the thought.

"Good luck, Sherlock, and goodnight," he said, kissing my forehead.

He drew back and punched me in the face again. Stars exploded in my vision and I blacked out.

I woke up on a side walk. Judging from the amount of noise, I was back in London. I stood up, staggering over to a nearby restaurant to clean myself up.

I washed out the cut on my face, stopping the bleeding. There was nothing for it. I was going to need help with this. I needed Jawn, as much as I hated to get him involved. I needed him to be amazing; to be the Sherlock Holmes. With this thought in mind, I wandered down the familiar streets to my home; my Jawn. Soon – too soon – I found myself on Baker Street, in front of 221b. I took a steadying breath. Would he forgive me? Did he even care? Does he love me? God, I hoped so. With a knot heavy in my chest, I knocked on the door.

(End chapter two)

* * *

Nick: So, Sherlock, you are about to see John for the first time in three years...How are you feeling?

Sherlock: A bit nervous. Really excited. It's Jawn, I love him and I know he'll be happy to see me.

Nick: I wouldn't be so sure...

Sherlock: Why do you say that?

Nick: Well I _am_ the author, for starters. Then there's the bit about you lying to him for three years. Last but not least, you _are_ a bit of an insufferable prick

Sherlock: Well...

Nick: Furthermore, any warm feelings he may have for you I assure you are long gone! That's how normal people work, Sherlock.

Sherlock: ...really?

Nick: Nah, I'm just messing with you, don't worry about it. :)

Sherlock: :) Good. I'm not sure how I'd react if we met after three long years if he punched me or something like that. That would be awful.

Nick: Good thing I'm not evil or anything. (Evil laugh)


End file.
